


Out Of The Frame

by SunseticMonster



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-16 14:58:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1351624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunseticMonster/pseuds/SunseticMonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing Draco has done in the last month has made any sense.  And it’s all stupid Potter’s fault.  Auror fic!  Featuring Dennis Creevey as Draco’s squirrely little sidekick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out Of The Frame

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Letter of Resignation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/484860) by [Oakstone730](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oakstone730/pseuds/Oakstone730). 



> Prequel to “Letter of Resignation,” by Oakstone730. Originally Oakstone had written it as a short, stand alone piece, but it has since become a WIP . Follow this piece with chapter one of “Letter of Resignation” 
> 
> Oakstone730 is one of my absolute favorite writers and I panicked when i received this assignment. I really took a few liberties with Draco and Harry here, especially in regards to their careers, interactions and ability to see what has been staring them in the face for years. I really hope that it flows nicely with the original and strongly recommend following up this piece with the first chapter of the original for the full understanding of the story.
> 
> Beta: Amalin THANK YOU!  
> A sincere and special thank you to the mods for being so incredibly understanding and patient while I struggled my way through this fic and granting me multiple extensions.

Draco Malfoy had become an Auror for two very good reasons: one, he wanted to prove to everyone that he could and two, he was exceptionally skilled at stalking and spying—always had been. It was the stealth, the sneakiness and the unparalleled pride he felt after outwitting others that had quite literally got him addicted to his career. 

The only problem was that his affinity for being a bit obsessive kept him at work into the wee hours of the night and sometimes straight into the daytime shift when people like Junior Head Auror Harry Fucking Potter were in charge.

Had Draco been assigned to Potter's daytime team, he never would have accepted the job in the first place. As a matter of fact, he had requested that Kingsley specifically separate himself from Potter—as far as humanly possible.

And he had. But Draco, as with most things, had fucked that up.

Worst of all, a part of Draco suspected that he had sort of fucked that up on purpose.

Which was all Potter's fault, of course. They both shared the same damn office and Potter had always been unreasonable about sharing.

"Oh, great," Potter greeted one morning with his usual scowl. He was balancing a cup of coffee, a crumpled scarf, and two chocolate chip muffins between his arms and chin.

"Piss off, Potter," Draco replied. He glanced up from his work and watched with detached amusement as the trailing scarf wound its way around Potter's feet, causing him to stumble. Draco turned back to his work.

Potter let out an audible sigh. "Go home already, Malfoy."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Draco murmured, tacking a sentence onto the bottom of his most recent report. "So you can try and get your hands on some real cases. What was the one they had the Golden Boy solve last week? The case of the missing gloves?" Draco wrinkled his nose. Everyone knew Potter had been getting shite cases to work on after multiple reports of physical aggression on the field.

Potter returned his look with a glare.

"Some of us have actual work to do around here, you know. We can't all be the _Head Auror_ by title alone." Potter ignored him and slapped a manila folder onto his desk, but Draco was on a roll. What _did_ Potter do all day, anyway? He was hardly on the field anymore. Draco was. Hell, even _Weasley_ and Finnegan had cracked more cases in the past year than Potter. Ever since he'd been promoted to Head Auror of their department, Potter hadn't actually done anything useful. Draco despised the wanker, but even he could admit that Potter's strengths lay in the field, not at the desk, and _definitely_ not as an event planner—one of a hundred hats that the Ministry had given Potter to wear to allow him to keep the title of Head Auror without actually doing Head Auror work. Everyone knew it, but they were too busy kissing Potter's arse to give it to him straight. 

It would have been a scandal to fire him directly, plus the Ministry benefited from having Harry Potter as their poster child. A real win-win situation—for everyone but Draco.

Draco rolled his eyes. "What's in the file, Potty? Top secret team-building games for the next Auror Retreat?" Draco flexed his wrist, then dipped his quill in the inkpot, proceeding to date and initial all of the changes he had made that night . . . or was it morning now? "I can't wait to see what's on the menu for us this time," he continued in a mocking voice. "Will we be untangling another ball of twine? Doing a trust fall? Climbing through hula hoops whilst holding hands?"

"Shut up," Potter snapped, slamming his coffee down right next to Draco's files. Draco jumped and glared at the tiny resulting droplet on his paperwork. He made a show of producing his wand and casting Evanesco. "Like you would even know," Potter continued, stomping through the small office and finally yanking off his snowy winter cloak. He threw it right over Draco's wool one on the coat hook, then kicked Draco's bag to the side and replaced it with his own. Before Draco had a chance to ask Potter if he’d been born in a barn, the Head Auror turned on him. "What will be your excuse for missing the retreat this time, Malfoy? Another family emergency?"

Draco tensed. Despite taking the mickey out of Potter for weeks after hearing about the twine untangling incident, there really had been a family emergency. Draco's father had been rushed to St Mungo's from Azkaban due to a rapidly spreading infection. On a recent visit, his mother had noticed streaked and feverish skin and had raised hell demanding that her husband see a Healer. It had been the first time all three of them had been together since the trials. Draco remembered being terrified that his father was going to die. But, Potter didn't know all that, of course. And since Draco tended to cry when he talked about his father, the subject was off-limits. "No," Draco mused, holding eye contact with Potter, "just a personal one."

Potter looked unimpressed. "You'd better be there this time."

"Mm hmm."

"I mean it, Malfoy," Potter pressed, crossing his arms and trying to look important. 

"I'm sure you do," Draco continued, smirking inwardly as Potter grew visibly riled by his dismissive tone.

"Malfoy—"

"Potter—"

"If you're not there, I'm putting you on probation."

Draco finally looked up from his work. "Are you joking? You can't do that! Only Willcott can!"

"Actually," Potter said, smugly, "I can. And as Head Auror of this department, I am ordering you to be there."

Scoffing, Draco wasn't sure whether to be amused or insulted. " _Ordering_ me?" he laughed. " _You're_ ordering _me?_ "

Potter's face darkened and he leaned in so closely that Draco could feel the heat radiating off of Potter's chest. He suddenly looked like all 25 of his years, rather than the gangly 15 year old that Draco liked to pretend he still was. "Watch it, Malfoy."

Draco glared in response. Potter glared back. Draco was about to respond when his eyes caught the gleam of Potter's brand new Head Auror badge. He wasn't the _Head_ Head Auror, of course, just the head of their department. Potter still had to answer to Willcott, who obviously didn't trust him in the field, and Kingsley. But, like it or not, Harry Effing Potter was Draco's superior now and Draco's job was his entire world. And Potter bloody well knew it.

Swallowing back his retort left Draco with a bitter taste in his mouth. "Yes, sir."

"And go home," Potter added.

"That," said Draco, "has already been cleared by Willcott," Draco pointed to the signed clearance form on his desk, "so stop eye-fucking my wheelie chair and sit down over there."

"That's _my_ chair," Potter gritted out. "You're at _my_ desk."

"First come, first served," said Draco. "Just because you're the Head Auror, doesn't mean the desk is yours."

Potter looked puzzled. He gestured to the desk. "But it is my desk. Those are my pictures. My calendar. _My inkpot_ that you're dipping your poncy little goose quill into."

Draco picked up his wand and levitated all of the items (except the inkpot, which he was using) to the stand-alone metal folding table that Dennis Creevey always sat in on the other side of the room. "And they can _still_ be yours," said Draco. "Over there."

Potter glared.

"Dennis always transfigures that table into something more suitable," Draco mused. "Why don’t you just—oh, wait. You aren't any good at transfiguration. I forgot." 

Draco and Dennis had been partners for the last two years. While Draco did the real Auror work and most of the paperwork, Dennis Creevey played the roll of trusty sidekick with aplomb. Anything Draco needed, Creevey got it for him or gave it to him, including the nice desk. The pokey little blonde would _literally_ give Draco the clothes off his back—had tried to, actually, in the past—and all with a smile on his squirrelly face. 

While it wasn't really what Kingsley had in mind when he explained the give-and-take of Auror partnerships, Draco and Creevey were an undeniably successful team. Draco did all of the work and, as such, got all of the glory. Creevey, in return, was a surprisingly incredible interrogator. He gained the trust of suspects and somehow got them to spill everything. Plus, he acted as an enthusiastic wingman for the rare evenings he and Draco went out.

Every once and a while it would occur to Draco how strange it was that he genuinely enjoyed Dennis Creevey's company when he wasn't being completely annoying. The only interaction he recalled having with the mousy blonde at Hogwarts had been ordering Crabbe to set Creevey's trousers on fire during a snowball fight. Funnily enough, Draco had no regrets. He'd considered that fight to be a true Slytherin victory and there were too few of those to start getting choosy.

"Come on, Malfoy," Potter pleaded. "How long have you been here, anyway?"

"Not long enough."

"Malfoy—"

"Potter—"

"Fey!" Potter called to his administrative assistant. The clicking of heels could be heard.

"What?" Fey asked, snaking her head around the door to peek in.

"What time did Malfoy get here?"

Fey blew on her drying octopus-colored nail polish. "Hold on," she said, turning on her absurdly pointy heels. She checked something on her desk and then returned. "Two," she said. "That's what we've got on the time clock." She looked at Draco and winked. "Sorry, Auror. Can't lie to the boss."

Potter's eyes widened. "Two o'clock? In the afternoon?" he asked, incredulously. "Yesterday?"

Draco huffed and pressed his hands to his temples. "I don't _know_ , Potter," he snarled, fighting off a wave of fatigue. The evening seemed to be catching up with him, but he wasn't leaving until he was finished. "Enough. I'm working." Draco's hand trembled slightly and he gripped his quill harder to try and hide it.

Draco could hear the scratch of the metal chair on the other side of the room and began to relax. Just one more file, he told himself. Draco set aside the McGowan case on the illegal animal trade that he'd been working on and snatched up a simpler one—a drunken violation of the Statute of Secrecy. He'd finish this one last file and then he would go home and go to bed.

...

The next week, the Auror department received startling news when a witness to the McGowan case showed up suddenly at the Headquarters with information about Charles McGowan that could, if proven true, put the man away for twenty years or more.

Dennis Creevey, Draco's partner, was doing that annoying arm-flappy thing he did when he got excited. "Oh, how wonderful!" he cried. "Just what we've been looking for!"

Up until this point, Draco and Dennis had felt certain that the charges on McGowan running an illegal magical creature trade had been nothing more than fabrications created by a string of angry ex-lovers.

But this particular witness was McGowan's current wife—a woman who had been living abroad and seemingly had nothing to gain and everything to lose by turning in her husband. If he was guilty, any money he'd made from the business would automatically be seized by the Ministry, leaving his wife penniless.

Come to think of it, Draco felt a bit suspicious as to what the woman's motives were in turning in her husband. He didn't believe in altruism like Dennis clearly did.

Still. The woman had provided them with a list of creature dealers, locations and even a register that supposedly listed the names of individuals who had made purchases from McGowan over the past year.

"I don't know, Dennis," said Draco, frowning at the file. "It seems too easy."

"Don't be so negative, Draco," Dennis chirruped. "Like my Mum always says . . ." He pointed to a little framed picture on their filing cabinet: "Think Positively and you will SUCCEED!" It had been a disappointing Christmas gift from Dennis to Draco last year.

"I am positive," Draco snapped. "I'm being realistic."

"Well, I'm being positive," Dennis replied, his eyes bright and his arms trembling as though he was holding back another flap. "It's good news!"

"Okay, Dennis. It's good news. " 

Dennis flapped in glee and ran off to go speak to the witness while Draco took the evidence file back to their office for perusal.

There was a list of unsurprising locations: The Eastside Warehouse; the basement of Coley's Department Store, McGowan's loft flat in London.

Draco copied these locations down onto a small piece of parchment to investigate the activity.

Then he opened the list of names and almost spit out his coffee. Listed, three separate times— once for purchasing a thestral, once for a dragon and once for a specially-bred six-tailed kneazle was Rubeus Hagrid.

Draco felt a smile curl the ends of his mouth. If this list was true, then that oaf was in a deep load of shite.

And for once, Draco wished Potter was in the room with him so he could wave the evidence in his smug face. The git may have helped Hagrid get away with his illegal shenanigans back in school, but Potter, like all of the Aurors, had taken an oath to uphold the law. No matter what.

Even though there was little work left to do on the case until they investigated, Draco decided to hang around until his shift ended just so he could tell Potter and rub it in his face.

...

"Go home, Malfoy." Potter's voice was raspy and his eyes were slits. He pulled his glasses off and rubbed his eyes with a yawn.

"Oh, I think you're going to want to see this." Draco turned his wheelie chair slowly around to face Potter. Having practiced this movement three times already, he knew it would capture Potter's attention. It did.

Potter froze, glasses halfway to his face. "What?"

"Oh, nothing," said Draco lightly, fingering the paper in his hand. "Only, I have some evidence here that could put one of your nearest and dearest friends behind bars." 

"What are you talking about?" Potter's voice had hardened as he put his glasses back on. "What is that?" He made a grab for the list but Draco pulled it back and held it over his head.

"Uh, uh, uh," Draco said. "That's confidential."

"I look over your work all the time!"

"Well," said Draco, "in this case, it may be a conflict of interest."

"Just tell me who you're talking about, Malfoy."

Draco shrugged, enjoying the tension on Potter's face. He'd waited hours for this chance, he wasn't going to just give it up like that.

But, in a flash, Potter had his hands wrapped tightly around the collar of Draco's robes and Draco was quickly reminded of _who_ he was dealing with and _why_ the man was no longer permitted to work on serious field cases. "Okay, okay!" Draco rasped, giving up quickly. "Get your fucking hands off me, you psychopath!"

Potter's expression changed. He released his grasp and looked down at his hands, accusingly.

"The Ministry really ought to conduct psychologicals on their staff more often."

Potter crossed his arms. Having regained control, he seemed less likely to play into Draco's taunts. 

"Fine," said Draco. "You're aware of the McGowan case, I presume?"

Potter nodded.

"Well, I have here a list of people— and I use that term loosely — that have engaged in illegal magical creature trades with Charles McGowan."

Potter swallowed a sip of coffee, but said nothing.

"I don't suppose you can think of anyone who might be on that list?"

Potter frowned, confused, and shook his head.

"No one?" Draco pressed. He let out a long sigh. "Well. This is a very _large_ oversight on your part, Potter. Very large, indeed. Giant. If you catch my meaning."

Shutting his eyes, Potter let out a heavy breath. "You've got to be joking."

Draco tapped the paper in his hands twice. "Not."

"So, what?" Potter asked with a scowl. "You waited here all night just to tell me that?"

Smirking, Draco placed the evidence back in the file and into the locked cabinet. "Well, I also had to work. You know I can't concentrate when Dennis gets excited."

Potter jumped to his feet. "Let me see it."

"Oops," said Draco, gathering his belongings. "I already locked it up."

"I'm serious, Malfoy."

"And so am I." Draco pulled on his cloak and stifled a yawn. "Have a pleasant day, Auror. And remember, above all else: honesty, loyalty and dedication to the law."

"It's got to be a mistake, Malfoy," Potter sputtered, trying uselessly to yank the evidence files open. "Just let me see it."

"And why is that?" Draco asked. "He's never done something like this before?"

"But he knows better now!"

"Knows better?" Draco laughed. "He's a giant, Potter. He's half monster himself. They aren't capable of learning. Enjoy your day."

With that, Draco turned and headed toward the Floo.

...

The next time Draco went to work, he saw that Potter's belongings had been placed back on the desk. There was a new picture sitting there, too, of Potter and Weasley. They were eating ice cream cones and if you looked really closely, you could see a drop of melted, spitty ice cream drip out of the corner of Weasley's mouth as he laughed. 

Draco made a gagging noise and tried to flip it over, but it wouldn't move. 

"Potter, you idiot." Draco rolled his eyes. He tried to focus on his work, but between Dennis skipping in and out of the room with increasing excitement and the picture of Weasley's big mouth, Draco was finding it impossible to concentrate. 

Finally, Draco found some books and spare objects around the room and arranged them in a fortress around the picture of Weasley, effectively blocking out his big, freckly gob.

"There, that's better," said Draco. He added a Sticking Charm to his fortress, as well, and nodded, satisfied.

Before leaving to investigate, Draco tacked a note to the fortress. "Potter Stinks."

...

The first location for the McGowan case proved to be a bust. The basement of Mr. Coley's department store had been converted into a small flat where Mr. Coley's son, Mark, had been living for three years. Mark had a small daughter and the only creature around was a turtle named Tortuga that sat uselessly in a tank. Apparently, Mr. Coley had once purchased a talking bird from McGowan years ago to keep himself company, but the bird had since passed and Coley's family provided all the company he needed these days. Because of Mr. Coley's cooperation and the amount of time that had passed since the infraction, he was let off with a warning. Mr. Coley also provided all Floo records and register records documenting every transaction that had taken place in the store in the last five years. Everything checked out and the man was cleared. 

McGowan's wife had insisted that Mr. Coley was not to be trusted, that he was double dealing, but something about the woman just sent up red flags. Creevey continued to follow the lead, but Draco put aside the file, feeling frustrated. 

...

"Um, okay," Potter began, shifting uneasily as he addressed the fifty-six Aurors lined up before him. Draco bit his tongue to keep from shivering. He was tired, cranky, cold and just a bit pissed off that he'd received a warning note from Shacklebolt telling him in no uncertain terms that he'd be off the force if he didn't attend. Wands had been collected at the start of the "retreat" preventing Aurors from obtaining any sort of additional comfort, food or contact. Dennis was all revved up and had told Draco three times about the funny pajamas he'd brought and couldn't wait to wear.

"Glad you're all here. And I've got a lot of plans, so . . . "

Someone coughed. It wasn't Draco, but Potter glared at him anyway.

"So," Potter continued, throwing his shoulders back, "I expect everyone to follow the rules and look out for your partner and your assigned team. Each tent will house two partner teams." He pointed at one of the muggle-type stick-and-cloth tents behind him. "All three teams will compete in a series of events. And the winning team doesn't have to work on Christmas."

Creevey let out a whoop and flapped his arms a bit. Potter grinned.

"But," Potter continued, pacing the length of the line of Aurors, "it isn't about the competition. It's about teamwork and building trust and bonding—"

"Bonding?" Draco repeated with a snort. "I sincerely hope not." Prewitt and Churchill snickered and Draco gave Potter a smug grin. Maybe he'd end up bunking with them and they could all make fun of Potter together.

Potter rolled his eyes. A satisfying blush spread across his cheeks. "And respect for authority," he added, pinning Draco with a green-eyed glare. "Failure to do so will result in a one-week suspension without pay."

Draco crossed his arms and huffed.

...

"You did it on purpose!" Draco hissed, hurling his belongings into the far corner of tent number two. "To keep an eye on me. I'll bet you _want_ to find a reason to suspend me."

Draco's entire body was sore, aching from endless hours of wall climbing and carrying Dennis through an obstacle course. All he wanted to do was sleep in his shitty sleeping bag and not have to endure Weasley and Finnegan bragging about having Christmas off and flexing their non-existent muscles at everyone. And now Draco was going to be bunking with Potter? 

"Oh, give me a break," Potter whispered back, just as harshly. "As if I'd _want_ to be stuck in this tent with you. I've had enough of your whining today to last me a lifetime."

"Then go switch with Prewitt."

"I can't," Potter growled. "The assignments were randomly selected and magically binding."

"Oh, so we can't use magic for anything else on this trip except you forcing yourself upon me?"

"Forcing—?" Potter balked, as he jostled around his bag in search of something. "You're out of your fucking mind."

"Watch it." Draco pointed a threatening finger at Potter. "Or I'll tell Kingsley about your inappropriate language."

Potter let out a growl of frustration. "Merlin—just shut your mouth so we can all go to bed."

"No," said Draco, dropping down onto his sleeping bag with a huff. 

"You're such a baby."

"Fuck you."

"Guys?" Dennis whispered, popping his head into the tent. "You alright, Draco? Harry?"

"Fine."

"Fine."

Dennis paused by the tent flap, looking like he had something else to say.

"What is it, Dennis?" Draco finally asked.

"Oh, um." Dennis shifted. "Guess you guys didn't see my pajamas then, huh?"

"It's pitch black," Draco muttered.

"Right." Dennis sounded dejected. "Tomorrow, then?"

"Yeah, sure," said Draco.

"Harry?"

"What, Dennis?"

"He wants to know if you'll look at his pajamas tomorrow, Potter," Draco snapped.

"Huh—who? Pajamas? What are you talking about?"

Draco let out an audible sigh. "He told you about them like a hundred times, Potter."

"It's fine, Draco!" Dennis insisted, dropping to his knees and crawling to his sleeping bag. "They're just funny is all. Thought they'd give you a laugh, Harry."

"Oh. That's great, Dennis," said Harry.

Draco rolled his eyes. _He_ was allowed to be annoyed with Dennis because Dennis was Draco's partner and they were friends. Potter, however, wasn't allowed to just dismiss him. He was being insincere and that was the same as lying. 

"It's okay, Dennis," said Draco. "Potter is exceptionally thick, probably because of that scar on his forehead. He has trouble remembering things sometimes."

"Don't patronize me, Malfoy. Dennis, I'm sorry," said Potter, as he pulled something out of his bag.

"You're not sorry," Draco snapped, but Dennis interrupted.

"It's okay, Draco," Dennis laughed. "I'm not mad at Harry. We're friends."

"He's not your friend. I am."

"You both are," said Dennis. "Now shut up, both of you, and go to sleep."

"Dennis!" Draco gasped. Potter laughed.

"Night, Dennis," said Potter. He turned his back to Draco and began to change.

Draco was about to shut his eyes and roll over when he thought, _who cares_? Potter didn't respect Draco's privacy, obviously. Why should he get any in return? Plus, it was so dark that he couldn't really see anything except shapes.

As it turned out, though, this had been a poor choice on Draco's part. Potter clearly assumed that no one could see him because he stripped down completely. Completely.

And Draco saw. it . _all_.

Potter was _fit_.

And _huge_.

Noticing that his jaw was hanging open, Draco snapped it shut and rolled over with a huff.

When he closed his eyes and replayed the scene five more times, Draco weakly managed to convince himself that it was only because he was jealous.

Potter probably _wanted_ him to see it or something. 

Yeah, Draco nodded along with his thoughts. Potter was the pervert here, not Draco. Hadn't he forced Draco into this tent and then subjected him to the shadow of his penis?

And now Draco was supposed to _sleep_?

...

That night it snowed.

 _Snowed_.

Draco hadn't slept at all and he was pissed. Fucking Potter being a fucking pervert had kept him up all night. The man had practically molested Draco awake. The only way to sleep would have been to, well, _you know_ , and even if he had thought about it, he would never actually do it. He was in a tent in the middle of the wilderness. He'd probably get a disease. Plus, he hadn't been born in a barn.

Not like Potter. Potter probably did _that_ all over the place. Potter probably would have done _that_ in front of Draco just to make sure Draco wouldn't sleep for a whole week—or ever again! 

And they had no warming charms, no drying charms, hell—Draco hadn't even thought to pack his damn mittens because it hadn't occurred to him that his barbaric superior would have banned wands. Though he supposed he would have known if he'd attended any of the retreats in the past.

Still, with wandless magic under Auror Potter's belt, perhaps it was easy to take things like _wands_ for granted.

Draco told him so the second he stepped out of the tent into the snow. Right after letting out an embarrassing yelp.

"Potter!" Draco yelled, trudging through the snow to the side of the tent where Potter slept and kicking on the canvas until he hit a body. Potter groaned and Draco kicked him again, making sure that he woke up.

"What the hell?" Potter grumbled from the other side of the tent.

"It's _snowing_ ," Draco told him with another kick, aiming blindly. "That's what. So get your lazy arse out of bed and do something about it! "

Potter stilled and was quiet. There was no _way_ that imbecile was going back to sleep after he'd kept Draco up all night.

"Potter!" Another kick.

"What? What, Malfoy?" Potter finally popped his stupid head out of the two flaps holding the tent shut. "What would you like me to do? Pray to God that the snow stops?"

"Oh, don't give me that shite," snapped Draco. "You could at least put a drying charm over the camp.”

"I don't have my wand."

"Since when does the Savior of the Wizarding World need a wand?"

"Since . .. I don't know, it's against the rules," Potter stuttered. "Just go away." He disappeared back into the tent like a turtle retreating into its shell.

Draco smacked the side of the tent. "Rise and Shine, Head Auror. I am up, so you need to get up, too."

"I don't understand your logic."

Draco didn't either, but he felt pretty sure that if he was stuck out in the snow at an ungodly hour because of Potter, then there was no way in hell he was about to suffer alone.

"I'm going back to bed," Potter added.

"Harry . . . Harry, are you up?" Draco heard Dennis whisper. He grinned to himself. Once Dennis woke up, there was no going back to sleep for any of them, that was for sure.

Potter didn't reply.

"Harry," Dennis whispered. "Harry?"

"What, Dennis?"

"It's light out now. Look. Look at my pajamas!"

Draco snickered from outside of the tent.

"Oh. Er-great Dennis," Potter said. "Really funny."

"Read it," he heard Dennis say. "It isn't funny if you don't read it."

Potter sighed. "Let me get my glasses."

...

When Draco returned to work the following day, he was pleased to see that his fortress was still intact. To his annoyance, however, he found that Potter had tampered with his note. Scribbled below "Potter Stinks" in Potter's nearly indecipherable handwriting were the words, "At least I wash my hair."

"I do wash my hair!" Draco said to himself, scowling at the note. How dare he! Potter's head looked like a bloody bird's nest. Just because Draco used hair products it didn't mean he didn't wash it, for Merlin's sake. With a huff, Draco dipped his quill into Potter's ink and added "Yes. With a brillo pad," to the bottom of the note.

He tossed the quill aside and picked up his mountain of paperwork. Draco was beyond frustrated at this point. The McGowan case was going nowhere. It was almost as if Mrs. McGowan had given false information to intentionally tamper with the case.

He settled in to review Creevey's notes and write up the reports.

...

"Malfoy."

Draco jerked up with a gasp. 

Had he nodded off? Shite. If Potter was there, he must have. Draco squinted blearily. 

The clock read 9:52 a.m. 

"Shite! Potter! You let me sleep here for two hours?"

"I tried to wake you up, but you wouldn't budge. I figured you needed it. By the way, cute note."

Draco was about to snap something back when he noticed the man was holding out a cup of coffee. Inhaling deeply, Draco melted at the heavenly aroma and allowed his eyes to flutter shut. This wasn't the shitty burnt water-coffee from the Ministry cafeteria. No. _This_ beverage was a steaming, dark rich concoction from the French press at Florean Fortescues. And there was whipped cream on top. With cinnamon. And a cinnamon _stick_.

Draco gravitated closer to the mug. Merlin, his mouth was dry. When was the last time he had something to drink? Or eat, for that matter? 

Draco noticed a napkin on his desk piled with a few broken gingersnaps. "Huh? " he murmured stupidly.

Potter pulled back and Draco followed the movement of the cup with his nose. 

"Er," Potter was frowning at him. "Are you . . . okay?"

It dawned on him how completely foolish he looked and he sat up, smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of his robes. Draco pointed at the mug in Potter's hands. "Is that yours?"

Potter glanced at the mug and then back at Draco. "Oh," he said, setting the mug down on the desk. "Here."

Draco pointed at the gingersnaps with mounting confusion. "And those, too?"

Potter gave a tight smile that was really more of a mouth twist and flipped his hand toward the biscuits. "Yeah. You looked like you could use some."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It—just—whatever. Help yourself."

Shamelessly, Draco did—and with startling speed. Potter was staring, but Draco was just _so bloody hungry_ that he didn't care. As he chewed and swallowed, he stared right back at Potter, nodding his approval. "Good work, Potter."

Potter actually laughed and eased back into the metal folding chair. "Um . . . thanks."

"You're welcome."

"Good to know you're not completely useless." 

After finishing the food and Flooing home, Draco snapped out of his post-nap confusion and realized that Potter had actually bought something for him. And that it was really very strange.

Was he trying to buy favor with Draco or something? To help out his giant friend?

Draco didn't feel totally satisfied with that explanation but, unable to think of something better, he fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

...

Draco dreamed of Potter.

He and Potter were Auror partners, trying to solve the McGowan case together. In the dream, Potter kept trying to get Draco to eat rock cakes with Hagrid in the middle of Transfiguration class. 

When he awoke, Draco kept hearing Hagrid's idiotic voice in his head saying, "Jus' needs a little sugar." "Jus' needs a little sugar."

When Draco got his coffee at work that morning, he fixed it with cream and sugar, like always. 

"Jus' needs a little sugar," he mocked. After a few sips, Draco decided it was too sweet and dumped it out. "Stupid coffee. Stupid giant."

Later, when he went to refill his coffee, Draco hesitated with his hand over the sugar bowl. "Doesn't need any fucking sugar," he growled.

For the next hour, he forced himself to drink bland, bitter coffee, all the while casting mean looks at the new framed picture of the Golden Trio that Potter had stuck to the top of Draco's book fortress. Finally, he took an empty file folder and stuck it over the picture so he wouldn't have to look at their stupid smiling faces anymore. What did they have to be so happy about, anyway? Must be nice to be a bunch of famous heroes. 

"Stupid Potter."

At the end of his shift, Draco packed his work into his bag and left on time. He hated working from home because he couldn't concentrate there, but the whole thing with the coffee and the biscuits was weirding Draco out. There was no way he would allow himself to fall asleep on his desk again.

And what the hell had Potter been doing, anyway, watching him sleep for two hours? It was creepy. Voyeuristic. Strange all around.

 _No stranger than you watching him change_ , said a voice in the back of Draco's head. 

"Stupid Potter," he repeated, before Flooing home to continue his work.

...

Draco was falling behind. Anyone who said being an Auror was easy was sorely mistaken. Not that there were too many people that said that, but still. It was absolutely impossible to get any work done during his normal hours since that was when Draco and Creevey were sent to do field work. The rest of it: the paperwork, phone calls and meticulous filing—not to mention the evidence study and research—took at least another four hours out of his day. Granted, Creevey could do a little bit more of the paperwork, but it wasn't worth the effort of making sure he did it right. Draco was too fucking exhausted as it was.

And something else had made itself glaringly obvious throughout the week. Draco knew it was ridiculous, but ever since Potter bought him that coffee, Draco just couldn't be around him. What would he say? Was he supposed to be nice now? He didn't want to be. Would Potter feel compelled to keep buying him coffee?

Well, no, that was stupid. Why would he?

But, still. These were questions that had Draco rushing in and out of work on time, his briefcase packed with papers.

It made no difference, however. Working at home was not the same. Half of what he needed to reference was still back in his office, so beginning anything from home was a waste of time. And so, each day he fell a little bit more behind until he was completely swamped, drowning in a sea of unfinished paperwork.

...

The next day, Draco found that Potter had placed another copy of the picture of himself and Weasley eating ice cream on top of the fortress of books. 

Draco got a sudden idea. He stomped out of his office and made his way to the file room. He grabbed the rather thick file on Lucius Malfoy and sorted through various photos until he found one that he liked. It was a picture of Lucius wearing a high-necked collar, sitting before the board of governors and sneering. You couldn't tell what he was saying, but it kind of looked like he was saying "Potter," which made it all the better. Snickering, Draco took the picture back to his desk and stuck it over the picture of Weasley.

"There." That would show Potter whose desk it was.

"What are you doing?" Dennis asked, plopping down into the metal folding chair that had been transfigured into an armchair. "Isn’t that your dad?" Dennis frowned.

"Why, yes it is," Draco replied, grinning.

"Wasn't that a picture of Ron this morning?" Dennis asked.

"No, I don't believe so," Draco replied.

Dennis shook his head. "Why do you hate him so much?"

"I don't hate him!" Draco snapped. "He's made a lot of mistakes, but he's still my father. Just because I'm an Auror—"

"Um." Dennis paused, holding a hand out to stop Draco. "I meant Harry."

Draco felt his face turn red. "Oh." Why had he said all that? He always managed to embarrass himself when it came to his father. "I don't."

"Well, what’s all this, then?" Dennis asked, gesturing to the room.

"What’s all what?" 

Dennis gave a small laugh that sounded judgmental.

"What?" Draco demanded. 

"He doesn't do anything to you."

"He glued a picture of Weasley onto my desk, Creevey. Potter knows I can't stand him. He obviously did it on purpose."

Dennis shook his head. "Not everything Harry does is about you, you know."

"I never said it was." Draco was starting to get annoyed with Dennis. Why was he asking so many stupid questions? 

"So why do you keep trying to get at him?"

"Sport." Draco scowled. 

"Why Harry?"

"Why not?" Draco snapped, wheeling around to face Dennis. "Why are you being so pushy today? Forget your Cheering Charm or something?"

Dennis shrugged. "Just seems like you worry a lot about what he thinks."

"I don't give a rat’s arse what Potter thinks."

"Then why do you hang around every day until he gets here?"

Draco tensed. "Maybe because you're a shite writer, Dennis, and somebody has to do all the work."

Dennis reeled back as if he'd been slapped.

Draco sighed. "I didn’t mean—"

"Fine, Draco." Dennis stood up with a glare and marched over to Draco's desk. He yanked the file from Draco's hands and tossed it haphazardly onto the metal folding table. "I'll do the paperwork and you can go question the next witness."

Draco's stomach dropped. "No, it's—"

"No," said Dennis, his arms flapping angrily. "I thought I was doing you a favor because I know interrogations make you nervous."

Draco said nothing. It was true. He _hated_ questioning people. Mostly because they all knew who he was and tried to turn the conversation back around to him. One time a suspect even pulled up his sleeve to see his Dark Mark. 

"But I'll do the paperwork," Dennis continued. "Maybe then you can get some buggering shut eye and stop obsessing about Potter all the time who, in case you didn’t notice, doesn't even work the same hours as you!"

Was that how Draco appeared to Dennis? To _everyone_? Like he was obsessed with Potter? Pansy Parkinson used to say the same thing to him in fifth year, but Draco had thought it was just because she was being a tit. 

"Fine," Draco said. "Whatever."

Dennis had a sad look on his face. 

"And you aren't a bad writer, Dennis," Draco added. "I'm just tired."

Dennis sat up a little straighter. "I always wanted to be a reporter, you know," he said. "For the newspaper."

"Yes, so you've told me." _A hundred times_ , Draco added in his head. He wheeled himself over to Dennis's desk and picked up the list of persons of interest. "When is the next one?" he asked.

"Fifteen minutes," Dennis replied. "Don't be nervous."

"I'm not!" Draco said, but he could feel his breath begin to grow shallow. "Who is it?"

Dennis avoided looking at Draco and fiddled with his quill. "Professor Hagrid."

The blood drained from Draco's face. Hagrid had always terrified Draco. Always. 

"Wonderful," he croaked. "No problem."

...

"I'm tellin' yeh, I've got nothin' ter do with it!" The giant was somehow taller than Draco, even while sitting on a laughably small stool.

"Right," drawled Draco. "The man who brings dragon eggs to a school of children has nothing to do with an illegal magical creature trade?"

"Now, you lissen' here, Malfoy."

"Auror Malfoy," Draco said with sniff.

"Auror," Hagrid grunted with a shake of his head. "I'm tellin' yeh. Search me hut. Go on an’ look. I promise yeh, you'll fin' nothin' there but Fang. An' maybe a couple a baby skrewts, but I got a license for those."

"And what about McGowan?"

"Who?" Hagrid scratched his beard.

"Char-les Mc-Gow-an." Draco said slowly, as if he was speaking to an idiot.

Hagrid shook his head. "Never heard of 'im."

"Oh, how convenient," Draco replied, gesturing flamboyantly. "Because I've got proof that you made several purchases from him on May 7th of last year."

"Why, if that isn' the . . ." Hagrid frowned. "Wait a minute. The seventh, yeh' say?"

Draco nodded.

“O’ May?”

"Are you deaf?" Draco replied, before remembering he was no longer a student. "Yes. May 7th."

Hagrid let out a low, long grunt and Draco shrank back in his chair. Then Hagrid laughed.

"Something funny?" 

"Yeah, Auror Malfoy. Funny that you got proof o'somethin' that never coulda happened. Cause I got proof that I wasn' even in the country on that day."

Draco took a sip of water. "Explain yourself."

"Headmistress McGonagall and Professor Sprout and me was all in America. And thas' the truth of it. I got Portkey records to prove it. Ask McGonagall, she'll tell ya I was there."

"What were you there for?"

"Conference." Hagrid sat up a little straighter. "McGonagall trusts me, y' know. To help out with impor'ant business. We was researchin' a new type o' magical plant. Relation to the mandrake. Wanted to see if we could get some o' them for the greenhouses. And a'course they wanted my opinion on the feedin of 'em, bein' an expert an all."

Draco let out a frustrated exhale. "Right." 

If Hagrid had Portkey records and McGonagall as a witness, then his alibi was solid. Which meant Draco was never going to solve this fucking case. "Produce those records immediately. You can go."

Hagrid gave him a little nod, then hefted his great body up off the stool and lumbered out of the room.

...

Draco had another sleepless night after waking up from a horrifying dream in which he'd been tied up in Hagrid's hut and forced to watch Potter and Hagrid change their clothes. In the dream, he'd been terrified of witnessing Hagrid's giant hairy body and had fastened his eyes to Potter's arse, instead.

Which was all fine and well until the dream took another turn that Draco couldn't even think about without feeling his face grow hot. 

It was always hard falling asleep before Saturday when he and Dennis worked the day shift. But that night, he'd tossed and turned all morning until he finally gave up, got dressed and went to work three hours early. At least there he could be somewhat productive and get his mind off of Potter. Plus, Dennis had, predictably, fallen behind in the paperwork, so at least now Draco could feel a little less guilty about leaving when his shift was over.

Because now—especially—there was no way in hell he could face Potter without doing or saying something thoroughly embarrassing.

...

The first thing Draco noticed when he arrived was that Potter had managed to unstick all of the items that had been charmed onto the desk. The second thing Draco noticed was that Potter had moved the fortress of books and the rest of Draco's belongings to the metal table. Third, and worst of all, was the picture of Lucius. Potter had magically enlarged it and drawn a scribbly marker mustache over his face.

Draco gaped, speechless. A part of him wanted to laugh, because the Lucius in the photo kept frowning and twisting his face as if trying to wriggle the mustache off, but another part of Draco was insulted. How dare Potter vandalize a photo of his father! 

Draco stomped over to the desk and grabbed the black marker that he'd left there. Then he went over to every single one of Potter's pictures and started blacking out teeth, adding unibrows and accentuating freckles into giant, monstrous, hairy moles. He drew curly stink marks around Potter and added flies in case he missed the message that he stank. Draco drew Granger's teeth down to the bottom of the frame and crossed out Weasley's eyes. 

_There_ , he thought triumphantly, as he placed the rest of his items back on the desk. A part of him felt sort of bad for what he'd done, especially since one of the pictures might have been of Potter's parents, but the wanker had asked for it. Plus, Potter drew on Draco's father’s face first. If he thought Draco wouldn't draw on his own pictures in retaliation, then he was a fool.

A voice that sort of sounded like a judgmental Dennis told him that _he_ was the fool, acting this immaturely, but Draco staunchly ignored it.

When Dennis came in a few hours later, however, he said nothing to Draco about the photos, only shook his head at him in disappointment.

Later, when Draco fell asleep with his face on a sandwich during lunch, Dennis asked him if he was okay.

"Fine, fine." Draco brushed crumbs off his cheek and onto some of Potter’s papers.

"You've been a little off lately, Draco. Are you sure?"

"I'm not off, I'm just busy."

"So am I, but I'm not falling asleep at my desk." He paused. "Or doing _that_." Dennis pointed to the pictures on Potter's desk.

Draco shrugged and rubbed his head. It wasn't like he could tell Dennis that Potter was haunting his dreams. 

"Maybe we should let Harry take a look at it," Dennis suggested. "It might be nice to have a fresh set of eyes."

"Are you joking?" Draco scoffed. "He can't. It's a conflict of interest because he's friends with that gia—er, Hagrid."

Dennis turned and dug through some papers on his desk. "Hagrid's been cleared," he said, showing Draco the Portkey records and a written witness account from McGonagall. "There's no reason to keep it from Harry now."

Draco growled and rubbed his temples. "I don't want to run to my boss every time I have an issue."

"You don't," Dennis pointed out. "You never do. You never ask for help. You don't ask me and you don't ask Harry."

"I don't need help."

"Yes you do," Dennis said, angrily. "You can't do this all on your own. Didn't you listen to what Harry said on the retreat? Aurors are not lone workers. We're partners. And all of us are a team."

Draco exhaled heavily and rubbed his eyes. "I'll think about it."

Dennis stood and began to put his coat on. "Good. I'll see you in a few hours, yeah?"

Draco's yawn was cut short. "Huh? Where are you going?"

"It's my brother's birthday," Dennis said slowly. "You promised you'd come meet me after the memorial service. Remember?"

Shit. He had. Why had he? Dammit. "Y-yes. Of course,” Draco said, stifling a yawn. “I'll be there, Dennis. I wouldn't miss it." 

"Thanks, Draco."

...

Eight hours and way too many drinks later, Draco tumbled out of the Floo, landing on all fours. He had decided that Dennis was absolutely right and that he needed to put his pride aside and ask Potter for help. And in his exhausted, overworked, obsessive and inebriated state, Draco had also decided that now was as good a time as any.

"Whoops."

"Malfoy?" Potter said slowly.

Draco pulled himself up off Potter's hearth and dusted off the knees of his trousers. He looked for Potter, blinking hard to clear his vision. Ah. There he was.

"Malfoy??" Potter asked again. His eyes were wide. He was sitting on his sofa with a cup of tea watching television.

"Ah, Potter. Yes, hello there," Draco said in his most businesslike tone.

"Hello . . . " Potter responded cautiously. "Can I help you with something?"

Right. The McGowan case. "Yes!" Draco declared, pointing at Potter enthusiastically. He reached into the pocket of his robes and pulled out a shrunken pile of papers. He produced his wand unsteadily, and made a few wobbly attempts at resizing them before holding them out for Potter to take. 

Cautiously, Potter climbed to his feet and approached Draco with his arm held forward, as if frightened to come too close. He took the papers, looked down, looked back up at Draco and then looked down at the papers again.

Draco cleared his throat. It felt like Potter wanted him to say something. "I just— excuse. The intrusion."

Potter suddenly frowned and tilted his head to the side.

"What?" asked Draco.

"Are you drunk?"

"I . . ." Dammit. He'd forgotten to do a breath freshening charm. "It's Colin Creevey's birthday," he explained.

Potter frowned. "Wh—you mean Dennis?"

Draco shook his head from side to side, possibly a bit too hard. "No, no, no. _Col-lin_. Creevey. Get it?"

Potter still looked puzzled, so Draco placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke more clearly. "A mem-memorial celebration."

"And you're drunk?"

"I might have had one or two,” Draco lied.

"Malfoy! What is the matter with you?"

"Nothing." Draco frowned and stepped back. "Nothing’s the matter with me, I just wanted your help is all. You should be honored."

"Er— you couldn't pick a better time?"

"No. No. See. I need your input. You know this case, too. Please Potter, it is vital. Plus, you should be proud, right?" The words felt slow and thick coming out.

"Of what?" Potter rubbed his head.

"Of me!" said Draco, flapping his arms like Dennis. "I'm asking for help. This is a huge step. Dennis said so."

Potter pressed his fingers to his temples. "Malfoy . . . this can wait until Monday. Please go home and get some sleep."

"No. No, it can't. Or else I wouldn't have come here. I won't have the nerve by then. And who knows how many dreams I'll have about you and naked Hagrid? Plus, I'm not stupid, you know. I know you looked in the files. But, it's okay." Draco's brain felt heavy. "Can I sit down somewhere?"

Potter looked absolutely horrified. Draco ran through what he just said and it dawned on him that mentioning naked Hagrid probably wasn't his best move. Oh, well. 

"It's the middle of the night." 

"Come on, Potter. It's not _that_ late." 

Potter cast his eyes to the clock on the wall and Draco's followed. He squinted to clear his wavy vision. 12:15. 

Draco supposed it was, perhaps, that late. He shrugged sheepishly. This was _work_ , though, he assured himself. He was here for work.

Potter crossed his arms. 

"Okay, so it appears that I lost track of time a bit." Draco made his way over to the brown sofa and plopped down, uninvited, onto one of the cushions. It sank with his weight, swallowing him up and cocooning him in comfort and warmth. It was nothing like the hard, white leather sofa he had in his own sitting room. "That can happen, you know," he added with a grand gesture. "Whilst you are working."

"Right." Potter looked unconvinced. "Working."

Draco let his head drop back into the cushion. "Say," said Draco, trying to lighten the mood, "has anyone ever told you that your couch is lovely?"

Potter's annoyance cracked slightly and he sat down with a sigh. " _You_ think _my_ couch is lovely."

"Well, it is rather ugly." Draco dragged a finger slowly up and down the arm of the couch. He could feel his eyelids begin to slip shut and fought off the urge. He'd finally made headway in approaching Potter. He wasn't sure why it was so fucking important, but at the moment he knew he had done something major. He had to take advantage of it. "I mean—it's as though one could just melt into it. Know what I mean?"

"Sure."

"My sofa isn't anything like this."

"No?"

"Uh-uh." Draco shook his head. 

"To be honest," Potter said, "it reminded me of the ones they used to have in Gryffindor. That's why I got it."

Draco turned. "Really?" Potter nodded. "Oh. No fair. Our couches were the worst." Draco emphasized this by throwing an arm out the side and nearly hitting Potter in the face. "They were hard as rocks. Hard as rocks." Draco shook his head with a frown. "No, wait. Gryffindor is the worst."

"So . . . were you coming here for a nap or did you actually want my help?"

"Oh," Draco giggled. Potter widened his eyes. Draco probably should have been embarrassed, but at the moment, it didn't really matter. "I do, I do. Just—" He flicked his wrist toward the pile of papers now sitting between them. "Here. You can put some notes on them now. I'll let you. Tell me what you think. You're good at that." His eyes drifted shut.

"So . . . you don't actually want to discuss the case. You just want me to proofread your work?"

Draco could hear annoyance in Potter's voice, but the room was so lovely and warm and even the sound of the laughter on the television in the background felt soothing and right. "Sure. If that’s what you want to call it.”

"Seriously. Malfoy." Potter sounded mean so Draco cracked his eyes open. "Why are you even here? Couldn't you just get Creevey to do this? We aren't friends."

For some reason, that struck a nerve. "Fuck you, Potter. Thanks for rubbing it in."

Looking taken aback, Potter raised his hands in defense. "Well, sorry. _You_ don't even like me! All you ever do is criticize me and tell me how useless I am!"

"Well, maybe I'm trying to help you feel useful!"

"That doesn't make any sense!"

"There's no 'I' in 'Team,' Potter, you said so yourself," Draco reminded him. "See, you think I don't listen, but I was listening."

"That's actually not what I said."

"Just forget it, Potter. I'm sorry I even came here." 

Potter waited. Despite Draco's intentions to make a dramatic exit, his feet just weren't up for the challenge. Instead, he turned away from Potter, sinking lower into the couch. When it became clear to Potter that Draco was going nowhere, Potter let out a defeated sigh and yanked open a drawer to the coffee table beside him. 

Draco heard a clicking sound and smelled smoke. He turned back and opened his eyes. 

"You smoke?" Draco cried, a lot louder than he had intended. 

Potter jumped slightly, then held the box of cigarettes out toward him. "You want one?"

"Uh . . . " Draco hesitated, then reached for the box. "Thanks."

"Didn't know you smoked," Potter muttered, as he lit the tip of Draco's cigarette, inhaled and passed it over to him. Draco took the cigarette and tried to copy what Potter did. 

"I don't," Draco rasped, holding the smoke in his lungs before exhaling in a messy fit of coughs. "Never knew our perfect Golden Boy was a smoker, though. That's a fucking shock."

"I'm not," Potter said. "Only when I'm extremely stressed or irritated." There was a pointed silence and Draco scowled at the insinuation. "For instance," he continued, "when Draco Malfoy shows up drunk and starts falling asleep on my bloody couch."

"I am not drunk," Draco mumbled in reply, the smoke mixing headily with the alcohol and making the room spin. "Told you that."

"You told me you had a couple of drinks."

"Yeah. With Creevey. In honor of his _dead brother_. See, you always make me out to be the bad guy." Draco flicked his cigarette haphazardly to the side.

"Jesus, Malfoy!" Potter jumped to his feet, startling Draco. "Ash all over my carpet, why don't you?"

"Shite, sorry." Draco cringed, stamping on it with his foot and rubbing in the ashes. "I only ever smoke in pubs."

"And you ash on the floor?"

"Sometimes. So?"

"So, you're in my house." 

"I said I was sorry."

"I know." Potter passed Draco his empty tea mug, presumably to use for ashes. Feeling a bit ill from his lack of sleep and over-consumption, Draco dropped the rest of the cigarette into the tepid pool of tea at the bottom of Potter's mug and listened as the flame sizzled out. It was starting to become clear, as Draco's mind became more of a mess, that this entire plan was a terrible, terrible idea. He was probably making a fool of himself and the very tiny part of his brain that still controlled logic was yelling at him to just go home. But the other part of his brain—the one controlled by pride—was clinging so dearly onto the knowledge that Draco had actually made a move—had done _something_ —that it wouldn't allow him to leave.

"What happened to your hair, anyway?"

"Splinched it." Draco snorted in amusement. "Trying to get here. Went to my house by accident and then I Flooed here, to be safe."

He thought he saw Potter roll his eyes. Then he realized he needed to piss. Or vomit. Or something. Draco used excessive momentum to get off of the sunken couch. When he did, he lost his balance immediately and swayed into the coffee table, catching himself with his hands. 

"Easy there," Potter warned. 

Draco sniffed and straightened himself. "The bathroom, Potter?"

"Down the hall to the left." Potter pointed. Draco gave a firm nod and began a very slow, controlled walk, concentrating all of his senses together in an effort not to betray his own drunkenness. All was well until his brain told his feet to go left and they, instead, made a sickening lurch to the right and directly into the wall where his shoulder knocked a picture frame crooked. He didn't feel well anymore. He didn't feel well at all. That cigarette had been a bad idea. With a deep, controlled breath, Draco straightened the picture frame and continued his march into the bathroom. 

...

Sometime later, Draco recalled Potter knocking on the door several times before unlocking it and coming in. Apparently, Draco had fallen asleep with his face on the toilet seat. Potter sprayed something called "Lysol" all over the room that burned Draco's nose and throat. Then he put his arm around Draco and walked him back to the couch.

...

Draco awoke the next morning in a seated position with his hand resting on a scratchy, pilled material that definitely did not belong to him. He cautiously opened his eyes, feeling disoriented and trying to ascertain where he was and what had happened. When the reality sunk in—that he was in Potter's apartment and —oh, _God_ —he'd thrown up and passed out on Potter's couch!—Draco's mouth dropped open in horror. "Shit," he mouthed. "No. No. _No_." He lit his wand, praying it was all just another bad Potter dream and that he was somewhere else—anywhere—other than where he thought he was, but a framed picture of the Golden Trio beside him dashed his hopes and the sickening pounding in his head confirmed that he'd done something very, very, very stupid.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Draco whispered frantically, as he gathered up his strewn items and tried to tidy the couch. He spotted Potter's tea mug from the night before and cringed. Had he really ashed a _cigarette_ on his boss's _carpet_?

Awash with horror, Draco raced to the Floo. He was still a bit dizzy and didn't trust himself to Apparate safely. Remembering that he'd splinched his hair, Draco reached up and touched it, cursing once more, then hesitated. Should he leave Potter a note? Apologize? Or explain, perhaps, that he'd caught a rare virus that mimicked the side effects of drunkenness and was in no way responsible for his behavior last night? Draco had just reached into his pocket for parchment when he decided that denial was his best course of action.

It had always served him well in the past, right? He put the parchment away.

Draco hesitated with his hand over his pocket once more and with a final "fuck," Draco threw a handful of Floo Powder into the low flame of Potter's hearth and hurried back to his room to bury his shame.

...

When Draco arrived at work on Monday, all of Potter's pictures were gone. So was the picture of Lucius, which Draco later found in one of the desk drawers. Draco's items were on the nice desk and Potter had moved his own to the metal folding table. No notes had been left for Draco—only his file on the McGowan case that he'd left at Potter’s. It seemed that Draco had finally been victorious and Potter was letting him have the desk. He'd won.

Wasn't winning supposed to feel better than this?

Draco frowned, noticing something new amongst his belongings. In the corner of the desk was a framed photograph that Potter must have put there. Draco sunk into the wheelie chair for a better look.

It was a photo of Potter, Dennis and Draco, apparently taken the morning after the retreat. Dennis was all bright eyes and smiles. He was pointing at his pajamas that were covered in pictures of sleeping dinosaurs with “Z’s” coming out of their mouths. In big, red letters it said, “Dino- _snore_!” The pajamas had been such a disappointment that Draco couldn’t help _but_ laugh at how terrible they were. He suspected that Potter had laughed for the same reason, but Draco hardly noticed at the time because he’d been so annoyed with the man for keeping him up all night.

The Potter in the picture laughed before trying to catch Draco’s eye, as if wanting to share the moment and laugh at Dennis together. Draco, however, was even more surprised by his own image because he _did_ look like he was laughing with Potter. For a second. Before rolling his eyes and frowning.

Draco watched the picture over and over, feeling strange. What would it be like, he wondered, if he and Potter actually did laugh together like that?

And of all the pictures taken at the retreat, why had Potter chosen this one to frame for their desk? 

He frowned. 

_“Their” desk._

No, it wasn’t anymore, was it? It was Draco’s desk. Which meant that Potter had framed that picture _for Draco_.

With a tightness in his chest that he couldn’t understand, Draco set the picture aside. He reached for the McGowan case and paused. On top of the file was a note in Potter’s telltale scribble-scrabble.

Draco read it. Then read it again.

Son. Of. A. _Bitch_.

Potter had solved the entire fucking case.

Apparently, Potter had had information on McGowan's wife from one of the cases he'd been working on. Something a witness had said to Potter tied both of the McGowans to the case. The list that Mrs. McGowan had given to Dennis was a complete fabrication. The McGowans had planned to distract the Aurors by leading them on a false trail, then empty their Gringott's account and take a Portkey to Aruba. Potter, Weasley and Finnegan had arrived at the Portkey request office to stop them and place the McGowans under arrest.

It was over. All that time. All that lack of sleep. Draco had managed to humiliate himself completely and, once again, Potter had stolen all of Draco's glory.

Draco let out a growl of frustration and hurled Potter's inkpot across the room.

He'd had it. He was finished.

Draco had devoted six years of his life to the Aurors and for what? He'd never be able to face his boss again. He was unprofessional and useless. He was useless! 

There were other jobs. Draco liked writing. He could be a writer. Or an actor. Sure. He lived in London, why not?

Draco picked up the picture frame and considered hurling that at Potter’s desk, too, but something stopped him. Instead, he stomped over to his briefcase and stuffed it inside. Then he grabbed the dusty copy of the Auror Handbook and Ministry Employee Guidelines from the bookshelf.

He flipped through the book, ripping pages in his sudden haste, until he found the section on contract termination. 

Draco slammed the book shut and stole a piece of parchment from Potter’s desk.

_Dear Auror Harry Potter,_

_As of March 3, 2007 at 4:23 p.m., I, Draco Malfoy, hereby resign from the Ministry of Magic Department of Aurors. I thank you for the opportunity that I have had and wish you luck in the future._

_Sincerely,_

_Draco Malfoy._

Draco glanced at his nearly illegible letter of resignation and signed his name to the bottom. The finality was painful, but he knew he was making the right choice. Before he had a moment to doubt his decision, he slammed the letter on Potter’s desk. If the schedule was correct, Potter would be arriving in seven minutes for a monthly “Town Hall Meeting” and Draco had no intention of being around when Potter arrived. He proceeded to tear apart the office in his haste to leave, throwing items into his briefcase until it was packed solid, ready to burst. 

Maybe now he could get some sleep. He didn't need this—Potter—keeping him up all damn night. And being around him only made it worse. He’d been obsessing over the idiot for years—wasting valuable time trying get his attention and only managing to make a fool of himself time and again. It was ridiculous—Draco wanting Potter. As if Potter would _ever_ want him back.

Draco paused and let out a shaky breath. It was true. It was completely stupid and completely true and he couldn't think straight and it was compromising everything. 

He set his bag down and started rifling through it, feeling around the picture frame at the bottom. Draco ripped it out and glared at it.

If he was starting a new life, then this—this _Potter_ nonsense—had no place in it.

Draco went to toss the item to the floor—had every intention to, actually—but found that he couldn’t. With a growl frustration, he stuffed the picture back into his bag. 

"What are you doing?" Suddenly, Dennis was standing in the doorway, flapping his arms nervously.

"Leaving."

Dennis rushed forward as Draco yanked open the desk drawer and started crumpling up the picture of Lucius. 

"What do you mean 'leaving?' Stop it."

"Oh, here," Draco thrust the mustachioed Lucius poster at Dennis. "I didn't know you wanted it. If there's anything else you need, you can help yourself. I think I left a few mints in one of the drawers."

Dennis was frozen, a crumpled Lucius dangling from his fingertips. "You're really quitting?"

"Yes."

"Are you serious?"

Draco paused his mad packing and looked at Dennis. He was shocked that Dennis looked absolutely destroyed. Draco nodded mutely.

Dennis flapped. "How could you do this to me?"

"It's not about you, Dennis. I just—” He shook his head and looked at the time. “You don't need me, anyway."

"We're in the middle of a huge investigation and you're just going to quit?"

Draco stomped over to the file, ripped off the note and handed it to Dennis who managed to read it and hold onto Lucius at the same time.

"See?" Draco said. "Case closed." Draco slung his coat over his shoulder. "You were right. Potter was the man to ask. Potter was the man to ask all along."

"Draco—"

"Look, Dennis." Draco ran a hand over his face. "I know this isn't fair to you and I—. I'll talk to you later, okay? I have to leave."

Dennis just stood, glaring at Draco, while Lucius mouthed "Potter," from below. One last look at that cold face and curly mustache and Draco knew it was time to go.

Swallowing a hard lump, he turned from Dennis and left.

Hurrying through the Ministry corridor for the last time, Draco felt a sense of loss at the finality of it all.

Goodbye, Dennis, he thought.

Goodbye, Fey. 

Goodbye corridor and lift and wayward memos to the eye.

He glanced down at his bag as he made his way past security. Potter and Dennis grinned up at him from the opening. Draco blinked, not surprised to feel a familiar burning in his eyes. He swallowed hard and took one last look the Atrium. “Goodbye,” Draco muttered. “Once and for all.”

...

**Author's Note:**

> Leave your comment for the author here or on [Livejournal](http://hd-remix.livejournal.com/68412.html). ♥
> 
> You may wish to continue on to [Letter of Resignation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/484860/chapters/844235), by Oakstone.


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